


The Banner and the Argument

by miss_furniss



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 1980s, Getting Together, M/M, also some espionage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_furniss/pseuds/miss_furniss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little light stalking, Fergus figured, was actually a flattering and fairly benign form of courtship where Kingsman agents were concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

            They met at twenty-four and twenty-five, respectively. They met long before Merlin was ‘Merlin,’ strictly speaking, though Harry already led the pack in the race to be dubbed Galahad. Merlin was still the unfortunately named Dr. Fergus Brainard, recruited straight out of the University of Aberdeen, and Harold Hart was just a name he’d once seen on a list.

            The previous Galahad was KIA in Moscow, though Fergus considered ‘Killed In Action’ too mild a term for what had actually happened to Galahad. ‘Decimated In Action’ might be more appropriate, ‘Blown To Bloody Mist’ even more so. Fergus had not been active on the comms when Galahad’s mission had gone tits-up, but he _had_ been part of the secondary support team that’d been monitoring the feed. He’d seen the 9K32 Strela-2 missile launcher in the same instant Merlin had… an instant _before_ Galahad had seen it. Fergus had heard his supervisor’s hastily muttered “ _shit,_ ” and then the feed had cut to static. When Merlin had switched Pellinore’s feed from the secondary to the primary monitor, Fergus saw the pink cloud where Galahad had been, the Jackson Pollock paint spatter of brains and blood decorating the crater that the missile had punched into the wall. They’d gotten Pellinore out without further incident, but Fergus had seen Merlin’s face when finally the comms went dark. Trevor Collings—Merlin—had pushed back from the desk and stood, mouth grim and eyes gone hollow.

            This job had a way of emptying a man, Fergus suspected, demanding everything of one whilst giving nothing in return. Collings was getting old, and Fergus knew that—like the list of Galahad’s potentials—somewhere in the Argument, his own name was on a list as well.

 

 ***

 

            “The what?”

“The Argument,” Fergus repeated. “It’s IT, RTD, you know…” he said distractedly, fiddling with the adhesive electrodes that were attached at intervals across the candidate’s bare chest. “The boffins. Now, if you’ll please begin—“

            The candidate obliged. ‘Harold Hart,’ according to Fergus’ clipboard, began to run a brisk trot upon the treadmill, grinning like a loon. “Why on earth would they call you lot ‘the Argument?’”

            Fergus glanced up from the clipboard. “It’s the plural noun for a group of wizards. And stop talking, you’ll muddle my figures.”

            Harold shrugged. “Doesn’t speak very well of wizards, that.”

 

            Officially, _Merlin_ was supposed to oversee the Trials, but he’d lately been delegating: another warning sign, according to rumor, of the man’s impending professional implosion. This wasn’t one of the more baroque tests—in Kingsman, the term ‘trial by fire’ was quite literal—but merely a physical evaluation. Fergus was meant to collect the candidates’ physical statistics; having a baseline would make it easier to remotely monitor their vitals in the field.

            Hart had not been the first in line for testing, but he was the first to give Fergus pause. Hart had loped into the room wearing track shorts as clean and crisp as tennis whites, his brown eyes twinkling and smile bright beneath an improbably voluminous coif of windswept auburn curls, and Fergus had felt himself freeze, clipboard clutched to his chest like a fucking secondary school _girl_.

 _Christ,_ he’d thought, _he looks like he stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel._ He cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

            Hart crossed the room, trainers squeaking on the polished lino: biomedical was underground but gleamed sterile nonetheless, smelling faintly of stale bleach. He stuck out his hand. “Harry Hart,” he said. “You are?”

            Fergus clasped Harry’s hand politely, though he found that the usual pleasantries were sticking in his throat. “Brainard. Fergus Brainard. Eh… _Doctor_ Brainard,” he corrected, “though I don’t suppose it’s relevant, I’m not that kind of doctor, just… never mind.” He coloured, winced, and resolved to say as little as possible for the rest of the interview.

            Harry cocked his head like a spaniel, and Fergus waited for him to make the obvious joke, the joke people had been making since he was promoted two years early from primary to secondary school, and onward through his double doctorate at Aberdeen. _Brainard,_ they uniformly chortled, _har-har-har…_ even his Kingsman recruiter had had a comment to make, for fuck’s sake, though at least his had been less outright mockery and more an attempt at dry observational humour.

            Instead, Harry smiled bemusedly. “Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and began stripping off his shirt. “Well. Gus, then. Where would you like me?”

            A dozen answers flitted through Fergus’ mind, and not a one was work-appropriate.

 

            After the tests had been concluded, Harry’s hair shone satiny with sweat, sticking up in awkward angles from his forehead. Fergus passed him a towel.

            “So if you’re the Argument, then what am I?” Harry asked, scrubbing at his face.

            Fergus looked up from the computer desk, where he’d bent to study Harry’s results. He cocked an eyebrow archly. “You? You’re a civilian, and a cocky one at that.”

            “I prefer to consider myself confident,” Harry purred, and Fergus relented.

            “The Banner,” he said, with a short chuff of a laugh. “Operations is the Banner.”

 

***

 

            It was almost embarrassing, the ease with which Harry bested his fellow Kingsman candidates. His entrance to the organization was met with no ceremony to speak of; he was given a pair of glasses and with them, a unique broadcasting frequency. Then he was ushered into the boardroom and sat amongst the others, welcomed with an understated nod as Arthur launched into a summary of their most recent incident report. Fergus knew this not because he’d been there, but because he’d hacked Merlin’s glasses.

            After Galahad’s death, Fergus had given himself back-door access to the system as a whole, actually. He’d used it to keep an idle eye on both the Trials and the pending operations as dictated by his whim: a childish indiscretion, but harmless. Collings was a dinosaur; there was no way he had noticed and besides, it wasn’t as though Fergus intended to _do_ anything with the information. It was just…

            One learned, when one became involved with Kingsman, that while the world purported itself to be an orderly place, it was in fact always teetering on the knife-edge of disaster, one misstep from a global catastrophe. Omniscience, such as it was, was comforting.

            Harry had been Galahad for several weeks, and Fergus had been playing eye-in-the-sky for months, when Harry ferreted him out at his favorite pub.

            ‘Harold Tristram Dalton Hart,’ according to his file, was of a type: a true toff-toffington Englishman, English in all capitals. Probably had the Union Jack tattooed on that perfect bloody arse.

            He’d boarded at Eton, studied poli-sci at Oxford, served two years with distinction and was apparently of some tenuous relation to the current prime minister. Harry was _posh_ , though his frankly dazzling test scores made it obvious that this was not why Kingsman had plucked him from what looked to be a promising army career.

            “Do you mind if I join you?” Harry asked.

            Fergus looked up from his book, pint raised halfway to his mouth, and found a man standing over him who was all but unrecognizable from the boy Fergus had strapped onto a treadmill.

            “Not at all,” he said. He leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other, the picture of unruffled nonchalance. He looked sharp, he knew, by IT standards: pointed brown-leather oxfords and charcoal-colored slacks, plum jumper and an unbuttoned collar, his dark hair worn slick and short with a dramatic side-parting. Harry Hart, however, had clearly visited the tailor since last they met. Harry was so damn sharp that Fergus half feared he’d be cut, just looking at the man.

            The suit was heather-grey, a color that flattered Harry’s creamy complexion and auburn hair. Those riotous curls had been tamed somewhat; this observation was accompanied by the perverse, almost overwhelming urge to thrust his fingers into Harry’s hair and muss it up again. It was springtime, and so Kingsman had cut him a spring suit: grey waistcoat and a shirt with a subtle pink pinstripe. Navy-blue tie. Harry grinned, an unexpected sunburst of genuine expression beneath the standard-issue tortoiseshell glasses. Fergus grinned back.

 

            Harry removed his glasses as he sat down at the table. A layman might not have noticed, but Fergus caught the minute press of Harry’s thumb against the button that was recessed into the base of the right lens. They’d not merely been tucked away into his breast pocket, then, but had been entirely disabled. Fergus noted this without assigning any especial importance to the fact: agents usually ceased transmitting when off-duty. Harry’s fingers curled themselves around the cool, sweating glass of his own pint; he surveyed the pub with an effete air of boredom. When he flicked his eyes back to Fergus’ book, however, they sparked conspiratorially.

            “Do you often bring your work home with you?” he asked, leaning forward.

            Fergus snapped the book shut, hiding his schematics from view. “Side project,” he murmured. “Or have you never had a hobby?”

            “I’ve a great many, actually,” Harry laughed. “My apologies, Gus, I didn’t realize we were keeping secrets.”

            Fergus smirked wryly, but allowed his hands to relax their protective clutch about the book. “Everyone in Kingsman has a secret, Harry.”

            “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Harry’s smile took on an enigmatic edge, but then he leaned back again and was abruptly as benign as he had been before. “Come on, let me buy you a pint and I’ll introduce you to a few of the more charming skeletons in my closet.”

 

 ***

 

            Harry was not just some toff, Fergus discovered. The man wore his birthright with quiet elegance and a curious, self-depracative humility. It wasn’t simply his lack of entitlement that impressed, however; Harry Hart was _funny_. He had a subversive sense of humour that reared its head at the most unexpected—frequently inopportune—moments.

            Fergus developed a habit of popping in on Galahad’s feed, whether or not he’d actually been assigned to the team monitoring that particular mission. Once, Harry had been undercover in an exclusive expat resort in Phuket, endearing himself to the bored young girlfriend of an international arms dealer. They were sitting on the beach one glorious, Technicolor afternoon when Harry leaned over—ostensibly to brush an insect away from the girl’s neck—and injected a tracker into her subdermal tissue. Fergus watched the smooth maneuver with pride; after all, he had been on the biotech team that’d designed this variation of the standard-issue signet ring. After Harry had murmured his apologies, however, and stood to go refresh her drink, he had begun humming Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ Fergus’ short bark of delighted laughter had rung out from behind his computer desk—one desk in IT’s sea of anonymous desks—and he’d had to very quickly shut down the visual feed.

 

            They kept meeting, though never conspicuously by design. Harry would drop in at the pub, always minutes after Fergus had settled in with a schematic and a pint; Fergus would just _happen_ to bump into Harry at one of the American-style piano bars Hart favoured. Of course, it’d become obvious to Fergus that he was being surveilled, though the reason for Harry’s interest had yet to reveal itself. Instead of waiting patiently for that particular shoe to drop, however, Gus had enacted a friendly offensive in turn.

            A Kingsman agent knew no privacy. Discovering the man _beneath_ the bespoke suit—the man who did not talk about his sexuality but who had not denied it during his intake interview, the man who bore a surprising affection for blues-rock and American jazz—had been easily accomplished. The standard personnel files were easy to access, but if one dug a little deeper, one found that Kingsman recorded _everything_ ; one morning Gus had almost nothing but his assumptions… the next morning he was in possession of information ranging from Harry’s favorite restaurants to Harry’s favorite color _socks_.

            The knowledge made him feel more secure, certainly, but instead of sating his curiosity, these facts—sans context—only exacerbated it. And so he let Harry find him, and found Harry in turn, and played a winking game of tag for weeks.

 

***

 

            “What’re you doing back here? I thought they’d loaned you out to RTD.”

            Fergus fought the urge to groan. “Exactly. I was _loaned_ to RTD. I put in for a transfer, but…” He spread his hands in a grandly sarcastic gesture, indicating the computer desk: three monitors and a hulking system unit.

            “The best laid plans,” Harry agreed, drily. “Is that what you’re always scribbling? Some groundbreaking gadget that’ll get you into RTD?” He had appeared behind Fergus’ chair like a whisper and stood now with one hand planted on the desktop, the other set lightly between Fergus’ shoulder blades. Lightly, and yet the touch could not have felt more deliberate. “Let me guess. Toasters that shoot lasers? Strangling bedsheets?”

            “Don’t be daft,” Fergus snorted. He could feel the increased speed of his own pulse, could smell the spicy clove that was the heart-note of Harry’s cologne. He’d learned a thing or two, however, whilst he’d been observing Galahad in action, and so none of this was evident upon his face. Instead he relaxed; he leaned back into Harry’s hand, seemingly heedless of its intent. “You can strangle someone manually with a bedsheet; complicating it would be like mechanizing a garotte. Pointless.”

            “Hm.” Harry withdrew. “You know, Arthur’s got no immediate plans to send me into the arse-end of nowhere.”

            “And?”

            “And there’s a match on. Have you been to my house?”

            “You know that I haven’t.”

            “Well. That’s something which we’ll just have to remedy.”

 

            They’d discovered, during one of their many conversations in the preceding weeks, that they were both ardent football fans. Oddly enough, when Fergus darkened Harry’s doorstep that afternoon, it was with no intention of actually _watching_ the footie.

 

***

 

            The relationship seemed to exist in some strange sort of limbo: they were friendly, but only so far as caution would allow. Fergus enjoyed their conversations, but found they felt contrived. They were too cool, too scripted… when he rewound them in his head, they sounded disquietingly like conversations _Galahad_ had conducted, conversations on which Fergus had eavesdropped and had, at the time, enjoyed. It felt different, however, to be on the _receiving_ end of a super-spy seduction.

            He could make a distinction between Galahad and Harry Hart because there most assuredly _was_ a distinction. Harry’s actual personality beneath the Kingsman polish was like the silvery flash of a fish beneath the water: surfacing momentarily in a toothy grin or boyish prank, and then gone as soon as it had come. After they’d begun to get to know each other, this phenomenon had eclipsed Harry’s physical charms in terms of motivating factors. When Fergus decided to play along, it was mostly to see if a good shag might not unearth more of that glimmering personality which Harry so doggedly disguised. It didn’t take a secret agent, after all, to use sex as a weapon.

 

            “…my word.” Harry chuckled breathlessly, sprawled loose-limbed on the carpet. In the background, the television crackled with the sound of a crowd gone wild. The Rangers had scored their third goal, and the announcer had grown increasingly hyperbolic.

            Fergus shifted to allow Harry to withdraw his arm from beneath Fergus’ back. The carpet fibres were coarse against his skin, but he was too sticky, slow, and sated to make moving a priority. He grinned broadly at Harry from across the floor. “I needed that.”

            He’d grabbed Harry by his starched shirtfront and lunged across the sofa after a particularly heated play, but when Harry had broken the kiss, Fergus worried he’d miscalculated. Then a wicked smirk had split Hart’s face and he’d shoved Gus backward, bashing his head against the armrest. It was refreshingly uncouth.

            Harry, too, seemed now content to remain where he was, though he began to shift himself free of his shirt. It’d been partially unbuttoned; two buttons had popped free and rolled beneath the coffee table, though repairing them would be easy enough. There were certain benefits to the Kingsman cover-story. “And here I was worried we’d be incompatible.”

            “Oh?”

            Harry frittered one hand through the air, a careless gesture. “You’ve got this _feral_ energy about you,” he said. He smiled, as if to concede the silliness of such a point. “Lean and hungry. Sharp-eyed. Like a wolf. I rather thought you’d be a top.”

            “Oh, that’s _funny_ ,” Fergus muttered dangerously. “Because you look so much like daddy’s public schoolboy that I thought you’d ask to be turned over my knee.”

            “Cheeky…” Harry warned.

            Topping Harry Hart was not an idea without merit, but Fergus did not feel less a man for admitting that he was just as happy with the inverse. He’d taken exactly what he had required, ordering Harry from the sofa to the floor and climbing him with the single-mindedness of a kid on a jungle-gym. That Harry had eventually seen fit to reclaim the upper-hand had been a pleasant surprise, though Fergus expected he would have to ask Harry to salve up the rug-burn on his back.

            “Were you taping the match?” he asked instead.

            “Obviously. Why? Do you want to watch the rest of it?”

            “Yeah. Or…” Fergus ran the tip of his tongue meditatively across his upper lip. “We _could_ do that again.”

            “Gus,” Harry chided. “We live in a civilized nation. We can do _both_.”

 

***

           

            Their interactions warmed somewhat, after the addition of sex to the routine. Still, though, Harry retained the slippery sheen of his professionalism, even when he was bringing Chinese take-out round to Gus’ desk, or meeting Gus at the pub with Mr. Pickle tucked beneath his arm. Fergus had yet to see Harry dress like a normal person, for one thing. He always wore a Kingsman suit. Even when he was in his shirtsleeves, in the kitchen, his bespoke shirt boasted cleaner lines than the knife upon the chopping block. Fergus could admit that it left him more than a little bit wrong-footed.

            More tellingly, there _remained_ the fact that Harry had seen fit to research Gus’ movements, at least to the point that he knew where Gus took his refreshment after-hours. There were two possibilities for this.

            The first was simply that Harry Hart had taken a liking to him independently. This was the obviously preferable possibility; a little light stalking, Fergus figured, was actually a flattering and fairly benign form of courtship where Kingsman agents were concerned.

            The second possibility was that Harry had been given this information, and ordered to engage. Whether what had happened _after_ was included in those orders was unclear, though of course Fergus was familiar with the concept of a honeypot.

            If Gus were to contextualize Harry’s behaviour in light of Poss. No. 1, then there was nothing more sinister at work than the unfortunate fact that Harry was unable to disengage his private from his work persona. In which case he might remain a sort of personal pressure-release valve but was clearly not boyfriend material. Solution: strategic application of the cold shoulder.

            Contextualizing Harry’s behavior in light of Poss. No. 2 called for a different strategy, however. If Fergus was being surveilled, then he needed to know _why_ , and _by whom._ It would be easier to obtain this information if Harry felt secure in Gus’ ignorance; therefore, it was important that he alter nothing about their present circs.

            Solution: the cold shoulder offensive could wait. Gus Brainard, Uni of Aberdeen’s youngest ever PhD in engineering and computer sciences, had an undetectable transmitter to build.

 

***

 

_“Something’s amiss.”_

_“How so?”’_

_“He’s behaving… oddly. I think we ought to consider altering our timeline.”_

The first voice had been Harry’s, vibrating ever so slightly with the feedback that Gus had been unable to entirely eliminate from his tie-pin prototype. The second voice was unfamiliar. It paused, considering Harry’s proposition.

            _“All right. Introduce us. I’ve got an offer that I’d like to extend.”_

Harry had taken to disabling his glasses anytime that he was not explicitly on assignment, and so there was no accompanying visual feed. If anyone in IT had walked past Fergus’ desk, it would’ve looked as though he’d been staring, horrified, at an Excel spreadsheet.

            He tapped his tiny white earwig; it remained maddeningly silent. He could imagine Harry’s nod and, if he strained, could hear the scuff of shoes as Harry made his way outside. Framed in a minimized window on his monitor was a map, and on that map was a blip. ‘HH,’ that blip was labeled, and at last check it’d entered a café in Soho, nowhere near Kingsman facilities.

            The tie-pin was visually identical to that which Harry wore habitually, though this doppelganger disguised not only a miniscule microphone but a tracker as well. Gus might’ve liked to use the injectable tracker, but Harry knew that trick.

            Instead he’d gotten Hart up to his flat with the promise of homemade spaghetti carbonara and a peppery Cesanese del Piglio. He’d plied Harry with his nonna’s recipe and a lot of good, red wine, and then Gus had gotten him undressed. Afterwards he’d taken pains to make sure that it’d been him who had done up Harry’s tie: standing close, sharing breath and body heat as he cinched the knot around Galahad’s throat. Smirking.

            Switching out the tie-pin had been easy. Listening to Harry discuss him in the way Galahad might discuss a foreign hostile… that was not.

 

***

 

            “Have you ever been to the opera?”

            Fergus stiffened, then willed himself to relax. He leaned luxuriantly backward in his computer chair, cocking his head to see Harry standing just behind. “No. Not sure it’d be to my liking, though. You know me. Rough and tumble.”

            “I _do_.” Harry smirked, giving Gus’ shoulder a conspiratorial squeeze. “I’d still like you to come with me. I’m meeting a friend, someone that I think you might appreciate.”

            Gus hesitated, and Harry leaned over so that his chin rested atop Gus’ head. “I’ve never been, either,” Harry mused. His tone had grown quiet, curiously wistful. “Maybe we’ll _both_ hate it. In which case, we can tell Niles to go fuck himself, leave during intermission, go down to the pub and start a fight.”

            Fergus sniggered, despite himself. “Yeah. Fine. You’ve got yourself a date.”

           

            ‘Niles’ proved to be a heavyset man of exceptional height. Fergus estimated that he was at least thirty years their senior, and when Niles opened his mouth, his voice was that which Gus had heard over his transmitter but not been able to identify.  

“Evening,” Niles said, smiling mildly as he held out his hand to shake. “You must be the estimable Dr. Brainard. Harry’s told me so much about you.”

            Gus had spent the entire cab ride steeling himself for this, with Harry cool and distant by his side. He clasped Niles’ hand, met his eye, and smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said.

 

            Niles had reserved a box, apparently. There was room for several people, but it was left unoccupied save for their small party. Harry hung back, finding a seat toward the door through which they’d come; he gestured Fergus toward the front, where there were two seats with program leaflets propped upon their dense velveteen cushions. Niles took one seat; Gus took the other.

            Behind him, he heard Harry laugh. “Political drama? Honestly, I’d have thought we got quite enough of that at _work_.”

            Gus glanced backward; Harry was sat with one leg cocked casually across the other, paging through the program as though this was _normal._ Harry looked up then, and graced Gus with the tiniest quirk of his mouth. Whatever else might be off-putting about the man, Gus would admit that Hart could work a tux like no-one’s business. Without the glasses, Harry’s brown eyes fairly _smoldered._ Gus turned back to Niles, before he had the chance to lose his nerve.

            He cleared his throat. “I appreciate the opportunity, but… I don’t suppose we’re _just_ here to broaden our cultural horizons.”

            Niles’ smile remained as mild as it had been before. He did not answer, however, for several minutes: not until the lights had dimmed, the curtain had risen and the performance of Verdi’s ‘Un Ballo in Maschera’ had launched well into its first act. “Your resume is quite impressive, Doctor,” he whispered, finally.

            Gus shook his head. “Fergus. Please.”

            “If you like. Harry tells me that your skills are going somewhat wasted. Are you happy with your present employment?”

            “Is this…” Gus glanced quickly from Niles to Harry and back again. “Is this a _job interview_?” he hissed.

            “It is if you would like it to be. My organization is… up-and-coming. We’ve an almost unlimited budget, plenty of lab space, and we are in need of bright young minds. Like yours,” he clarified. “Shall I continue?”

            “I…” Gus froze, the words stuck in his throat. He swallowed, hard. “Yes,” he said, and his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Strangled and strange. “Yes. I’d like you to continue.”

            “Open your program.”

            He did. There was a cheque inside. The number scrawled across its central line was… mind-boggling.

            “That’s an advance. Of your first five years’ salary. I’d like you to take some time, enjoy it, enjoy Mr. Hart’s company… and get back to me when you’re ready to begin. Harry knows how to contact me.” Niles levered his bulk up out of the opera chair and, before he went, settled a paternal hand on Gus’ shoulder. “It was good to meet you, Dr. Brainard.”

            Gus nodded, wordlessly, and watched Niles lumber away. Harry moved to the front of the box to take his place. “What’s the verdict then?” he asked. “I must say, it’s not all bad. We could stay, unless you’d rather go and start that fight.”

            Gus stared at him for a moment, then heaved one deep breath and forced a smile.  “No. I don’t… that is, can you…“ he plucked fitfully at Harry’s jacket, gaze flickering from Harry’s mouth to his throat to his hands.  “I mean, can we—“

            Harry looked puzzled and concerned. “Gus?” he asked, and Fergus answered with a sudden, vicious kiss.

            Harry responded immediately in kind. Fergus felt the clutch of fingers in his hair and pressed forward. He wrapped one arm around Harry’s back, holding him implacably in place, and moved the other arm into position.

            That the standard-issue Bremont watch was capable of delivering a powerful tranquilizer would, of course, be something Harry knew. What Harry didn’t know, Gus hoped, was that Fergus had requisitioned one under the umbrella of the RTD department. Probably he _also_ didn’t know that even a _Bremont’s_ face might be switched out for that of a timepiece less recognizable to an agent of the Banner.

            A quick, circular snap of the wrist triggered the firing mechanism, and Gus heard the tell-tale zip of the dart as it buried itself, like a bee-sting, in the flesh of Harry’s neck. Hart yelped. He was up in an instant, reversing their positions and wrapping one arm around Fergus’ neck in a powerful choke-hold that had Gus down on his knees. Their chairs were knocked over in the sudden scuffle. Fergus grabbed the arm around his throat and shoved them both backward until he heard the crown of Harry’s head crack itself against the wall. Harry just squeezed harder until Gus’ vision began to white out at the edges. Gus bit down, savagely.

            Harry Hart did not cry out; the small, strangled grunt of surprise that _did_ escape him was all but lost beneath the rising din of the opera. Dimly, Gus registered the melodic crest, snatches of Italian that he only half understood.

 _I would’ve liked to know how it ended,_ he thought. Before he could determine to what exactly it was that he referred, he felt Harry’s hand shift.

            The face of Harry’s signet ring was a cold spot pressed into the soft meat beneath Gus’ jaw. The electrical shock that followed was still colder.

 

            Gus woke to find himself sprawled out on the carpet, ears ringing. There was a warm, heavy weight across his legs; he propped himself up on his elbows and turned to find Harry unconscious, apparently having face-planted only moments after Gus had been incapacitated. Fergus began to wriggle free, groaning; every muscle felt stiff as a board, and _sore_. He would have to have a talk with biotech, he decided, about the efficacy of their tranquilizer darts.

 

***

 

            Even at this late hour, the Argument was still abuzz with activity when Gus charged in.

            He knew that he must look a sight: tuxedo rumpled, tie askew and collar torn. His hair was all stood up at the back and if the pin-point ache was any indication, there was a nasty burn painted on the palette of his throat. He brushed past all inquiries, however: techs pausing in the hall as he swept by with a nod, his long, loping strides purposefully difficult to pace. When he reached Merlin’s office and saw that the light was on, Gus breathed a sigh of relief.

            “Sorry,” he began. Collings turned in his chair and Fergus shut the door behind him. “But I’ve got Galahad in the boot of my car.”

 

            “You _what_?” Arthur stood up from where he’d been seated at the head of the table. Gus paused. He’d never been inside the boardroom. His glasses revealed a map of the USSR, projected atop a print of Turner’s ‘Modern Rome.’

            “Well,” he hedged. “It’s not _my_ car, exactly. I might’ve… hot-wired one after I got him into the parking lot. Which was no mean feat. Carrying Harry, I mean, not hot-wiring a car, it’s really quite simple, I—“ he stopped. “I’ll shut up now.”

            “That would be advisable,” Arthur growled.

            “I told you he was good,” said Collings. Arthur silenced him with a look.

            After Gus had stormed into Merlin’s office, Collings had sat quietly and allowed him to explain. Then the old man had risen creakily from his chair, taken Fergus firmly by the arm, and led him through both the Argument and Excalibur, the armoury. They boarded the maglev train, and continued up into the tailor’s shop.

            “I recorded everything. I’ve had Harry bugged for a few days, and… and I’ve been transmitting all night, myself.” He tapped his own glasses. “It helps,” he said, “that these are real, of course, but I’ve been using an encrypted feed, in case this Niles character tried to check. It’s all been streaming back to my private terminal so, if I can just get home, I can get it all on disc for you. And this—“ he reached inside his ruined jacket, withdrawing the program and, with it, the cheque.

            “If we’re lucky the account will be traceable. I don’t…” Gus stopped, abruptly overwhelmed. He studied the floor, the expectant hush of the boardroom descending heavily upon his chest, sticking stiflingly in his lungs. He scrubbed the heel of one hand against his eye. “I don’t know how he got to Galahad, but…”

            “It’s all right, lad,” Collings interrupted. He looked to Arthur. “May I?”

            Arthur sighed. “About time. It’s getting late, and I dare say you’ve made your point.”

            Collings touched his glasses and spoke aloud. “Mr. Pembroke, if you would initiate your holographic feed, please?”

            A bluish figure flickered to life at Arthur’s right, and Fergus started. He said nothing, however, for fear that he might give away the game.

            Niles Pembroke clasped himself round the belly and laughed. The sound was tinny and distant, fed to the room through a small speaker recessed into the far wall.

            “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Dr. Brainard. Forgive me for not properly introducing myself. My name’s Pembroke. Recent acquisition out of MI6.” His eyes twinkled behind his own pair of tortoiseshell glasses. They improved his broad face, though that might’ve been Fergus’ imagination.

            “…I’m sorry,” Gus said slowly, shaking his head. “But I’m a little lost.”

            Arthur leaned forward, his palms splayed on the tabletop. His grey eyes were icy, and incisive as a razor-blade. “You’ll have an explanation,” he said, “as soon as _you_ explain why you’ve been breaking into Kingsman systems like a common sneak-thief.”

            “Ah,” Gus said. “That.”

 

***

 

            It was early in the following evening when Gus heard the knock.

            He’d been close to passing out on the sofa, absolutely knackered from his first day of field training, and content to lose all sense of self in the mindless babble of crap telly. Instead he dragged himself up off the couch and lurched for the door, calves screaming with every step.

 _Fuck_ , the _running_ … he was half convinced that the endless laps around the track weren’t even something that was normally required, but had been ordered specifically to punish him. “Coming.”

            He opened the door to find Harry in the hall, shifting foot to foot in an unusual show of discomfort. Also unusual was Harry’s attire: an oversized tweedy jacket, white linen shirt and rumpled chinos. His hair was in a fetching disarray and he held a similarly disheveled terrier squirming under one arm. “Hello,” Harry said.

            “ ’lo.”

            “I’d like to talk. Thought this might ease the way.” Harry held aloft a bottle of fine scotch whisky, clutched by the neck in his free hand.

            “And Mr. Pickle?” Gus asked, nodding toward the dog.

            “I’ve found that he’s quite skilled at diffusing tension. May I come in?”

            Gus looked him over for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, since you brought the dog.”

 

            They sat opposite each other at Gus’ small, round kitchen table, eschewing the awkward intimacy of the couch.  The hanging overhead lamp in its floral, stained-glass fixture cast a pleasant yellow glow about the kitchen; it picked out the amber notes in the whiskey as Gus set tumblers on the table and poured out healthy helpings. He sat down, and Pickle leaped immediately up onto his lap.

            Gus petted the dog absentmindedly. “So.”

            “Yes.” Harry fidgeted with his glass, apparently more content to study his whiskey than to drink it. “Did Arthur throw the book at you?”

            Fergus cocked an eyebrow. “Not hardly. He offered me a promotion, though not the one that I’d expected.”

            “Are you not on the list for Collings’ job?”

            “Oh, no,” Gus corrected, watching Harry over the lip of his glass. “I’m _on_ the list. But not ready by half.” He hesitated. “Would you think less of me if I told you that I was relieved? Because I am. Arthur’s asked me not to take over the Argument but to train as a field attaché, instead. I’ll conduct real-world testing for RTD, identify needs before they actually arise…”

            Harry smiled shyly. “Sounds like your dream job.”

            “It is. Yeah.” He paused for a moment, eyes flicking from Harry to the tabletop, and just listened to the sound of Harry’s breathing. It hitched around a swallow of liquor that—presumably—burned a clean path down Hart’s long, white throat. “Did you know? About Pembroke, I mean?”

            “…yes,” Harry admitted. “I knew everything. That Arthur had tapped Pembroke to take over as Merlin, that you’d hacked into closed systems sans authorization… everything.”

            Gus hummed his acknowledgement. They sat in silence for a long, awkward moment before he blurted, “I don’t suppose you got off easy, either. Letting yourself get side-lined by a boffin.”

            “I underestimated you.” Harry smirked. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

            Gus eyed him, searching for a mistruth, and felt himself colouring furiously. The hard knot of frustration that for weeks had weighted his gut now rose to become a lump in his throat. “You… you know, you’re a _shit_ secret agent, Galahad. I’d been on to you for _weeks,_ I don’t know _how_ you get away with such blatantly transparent behavior in the field—“

            “Oh, _come_ on,” Harry groaned.  “If you’ve really been monitoring my feed, then you know I’m _fucking_ good.  I just—“

            “You what?” Gus slammed his glass down, startling Mr. Pickle off his lap. He barely noticed.

            “I _like_ you. A lot. I couldn’t… _engage_ the way I was supposed to, and still act entirely natural. I just… christ, Gus, have you _met_ yourself?” Harry gestured at him, angrily. “You’re _adorable._ You’re…” he went on, spluttering as his gaze flicked uncomfortably away, the tips of his ears burning red. “You’re a _genius,_ and you’ve got a jaw that could cut _glass_ , and _my god,_ ” he said, “your _voice_. That dark-brown fucking brogue. I could get off just listening to you _talk,_ I swear to _god._ ”

            “Do you?”

            “What? _Get off_?” Harry asked, incredulous.

            “ _No_ , fuck you, don’t be _daft._ Do you swear it?” Gus hissed. He stood, leaning over the table and into Harry’s personal space. “Because Galahad’s fine, but _you_ … you’re _perfect_ , Harry. Not knowing the difference… it’s been _maddening_ , you understand?”

            “Yes,” Harry growled. “Yes, I understand. Yes, I swear I’m being honest—“ He pushed away from the table and stood up as well, until they’d met practically forehead to forehead beneath the floral lamp. “And if you don’t fucking _kiss_ me, then I may do something drastic.”

            Gus grinned wolfishly, baring one broken, crooked tooth like a solitary fang. Harry glared at him for a moment and then, suddenly, began to laugh. He laughed until Gus grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and kissed him hard across the table.

 

            “Well,” Harry murmured later, his breath puffing hot and damp into the crook of Gus’ neck. “That was all a bit much.”

            Fergus laughed. “Totally overwrought,” he agreed.

            “You’ve reduced me to petty dramatics, it seems.” Harry chuckled, the sound resonating deep down in his chest. “Worth it.”

            Fergus was inclined to agree, especially since the observation had been made from the comfort of his own bed. They’d made a thorough study of each other’s minor scars—Gus had left Harry with a goose-egg on the crown of his head and a tidy, crescent-shaped wound in the meat of his right forearm—and now lay half-dressed and tangled together.

            “Mm.” Gus hummed contentedly into the soft, sweet-smelling nest of Harry’s hair. “You have no idea,” he said, reaching for the whiskey bottle on the bedside table. He took a long pull, wiggling his toes beneath the terrier that’d made its home atop his feet. “Harry Hart,” he grinned, “the toys I’m going to make for you…”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the beginning of a sequel which I fear I'll never write, but liked too much to delete.

 

 

            Kingsman had been conducting its candidate Trials since the second World War, and so had developed its training regimen into something of a science. Six months, four days, and twenty-four hours.

            Gus hadn’t been required to compete for his position, but the grueling gauntlet of physical and psychological conditioning had been similar. From weapons training and technique, to martial arts, to the subtler arts of espionage and etiquette, Fergus Brainard had been remade to Merlin’s specifications: a piece of unworked steel that’d been rendered as springy, slim and strong as a rapier blade.

            Gus fidgeted slightly beneath Merlin’s scrutiny. “I…” he began, clutching a teacup in both hands. “I wanted to apologize.”

            Collings raised a bushy white brow. “That so, lad? You’ve served your penance; I’ve a bit of a sadistic bent, and I did design your training, after all.”

            “All the same, I’d like to—“

            Collings waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, fine. Get on with it.”

            The final few hours of Gus’ training period found him in the home of his sponsor. Trevor Collings had been Merlin for over forty years; he was an institution. His home was an institution as well: a sprawling country house that lay nearer to the Kingsman estate than to the tailor shop. The two sat opposite each other in Collings’ cosy parlour, with a pot of earl grey between them.

            “When I broke into your system,” Gus began, “I underestimated you. I’m sorry, sir.”

            Collings harrumphed, swirling the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. “So. You’re sorry not for breaking in, but for underestimating me as an opponent?”

            Gus’ brow crinkled. “I wouldn’t put it like _that_ , but—“

            “I would! In fact, do you know how _I_ would put it? You’re a cocky little shit, Vivien. You’re just lucky that I know what it’s like to _be_ a cocky little shit. If Arthur had had his way, Galahad’s orders would’ve been to terminate, not to entrap.” Collings leaned forward and set his cup down with a clatter. He caught Gus’ gaze and held it; Collings’ pale blue eyes were earnest and intense. “Overconfidence _kills_. That should’ve been your first lesson. It will have to suffice as the last.”

            “Sir.” Gus coloured furiously, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

            “Come now, none of that, you’ll break a tooth.” Collings smiled, softening. “I created this position for _you_. Know that. And yes, the codename is unorthodox, but it’s not just down to my sadistic bent. Are you familiar with Arthurian legend, my lad?”

            “…passingly. Vivien was the Lady of the Lake.”

            “Or a witch, or a nymph… her name and form change quite drastically from author to author, but you know what _doesn’t_ change? She always learns from Merlin. Takes his very best tricks and makes them her own. Whether she uses them for good or for ill…” Collings shrugged. “That changes, too. Slippery bint, she is.”

            Gus breathed deep. Spine straight, shoulders back… in moments he’d shed his discomfort and become every inch the composed agent, a breed that’d been such an enigma to him when he’d encountered it in Galahad. He smiled, wryly. “So you weren’t just out to punish me, giving me a girl’s name?”

            “It’s not _exclusively_ a girl’s name,” Collings corrected. “But no, that was just an added bonus. May I be frank?”

            “Of course.”

            “My greatest regret, during my tenure, was that I never spent time in the field. Merlin’s job is to protect Arthur’s knights, but I never faced half of what they face. You will. The new guard will surpass the old; you’ll see to that.”

            Gus nodded. “You’ve been… an enlightenment. I won’t disappoint you.”

            Collings’ lopsided grin exuded an exhausted sort of good-humour, as though he’d been disappointed many times before. “You’ve been given the keys to the kingdom, Vivien. Don’t fuck it up.”

 

***

 

            Collings had taken to wearing a lot of very professorial tweed in his old age. When he took Gus to be fitted for his Kingsman uniform, however, Collings instructed them to kit him out in something _smart_.

            The scuffle in the opera house had occurred in mid-April; since then, London had begun to darken, the sky gone iron-grey and the parks a burnished gold. October had arrived, and with it a crispness to the air: autumn colors in the streets and in the shops.

            The suit they’d made for Vivien was of a slim cut: a merino wool and Kevlar blend in such a dark brown that it appeared nearly black. Chocolate-coloured oxfords, stiff white collar, a plum-coloured tie with a pattern of butter-yellow cross-flowers. It suited his new shape—he’d always been lanky, but training had rendered him _lean_ —and it suited his dusky Mediterranean complexion.

            The morning after his final chat with the man who had been Merlin, Gus stood in front of the bathroom mirror in his flat; he shifted awkwardly, two fingers thrust beneath his collar. He had side-combed his dark hair, straightened his tie, fidgeted with his cufflinks… there was nothing left to do, no part of this new skin that’d not been stitched, steamed or polished into place. It fit like a glove, yet still it felt unnatural. He scowled at himself in the mirror, wishing that Harry were reflected in the glass behind him.

            Galahad had been assigned a deep cover operation in Kazakhstan three months ago. His contacts were limited to Merlin and a select team of Argument support staff; Gus had neither been selected for that team nor had he been allowed to monitor the operation as he might’ve done before. His access had been curtailed.  

            These last six months, Collings told him, would serve also as a sort of probationary period: Gus _would_ have his access restored, but only after he’d been well and thoroughly re-trained, a stray dog brought to heel.

            Gus had asked after Galahad, but all Merlin was able to tell him was that Galahad was well.

            “Could you be a tad more _specific_?” he asked, after his inquiries were—again—rebuffed. He and Collings had shared a black cab to the tailor shop; they moved now from the sidewalk to the stoop, where Gus opened the door for Collings. His question was addressed to the top of Collings’ hat: Gus stood head and shoulders above the wizened gnome that preceded him into the shop.

            “What do you want me to say, lad?” Collings heaved an exhasperated sigh. “He’s in one piece and he’s not been assigned a honeypot.”

            Gus stopped short, pulling a vaguely disgusted face, as though catching a whiff of milk as it had just begun to turn. “That... isn’t what I asked.”

            Collings turned then, and raised an eyebrow. “There’s a reason that I married a schoolteacher, Vivien. I’ve seen this go tits-up too many times.”

            “I’ll take that under advisement, sir.”

            “No, you won’t,” Collings chuckled, clapping one hand to Gus’ shoulder and guiding him deeper into the shop. “Remember? You’re a cocky little shit.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while Kingsman was still in theaters, actually. Then I lost it, and then I found it again. 
> 
> Kinsman's older characters inspired quite a bit of head-canoning; my personal favorite is young!Merlin as a new-Q style prodigy, too smart for his own good.
> 
> And while it's too bad that the new film will probably steamroll the possibility, I still love the idea of 'Harry & Merlin: Secret Husbands.'


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